Chapter 1, part 1

Detective Calvin Duster opened the door to his government-issued 2008 Ford Police Interceptor and stepped out in front of Evan Jameson's apartment building. He winced as the bright sun hit his eyes, adorned with deep, black bags and accompanied by a large gash above the right eye, still in its beginning scabbing period. He had barely slept for an hour wrapping up his last case before his cell rang him awake, calling him to duty once again, putting him at five hours of sleep for the past seventy-two hours.

His face was adorned with messy stubble from not shaving for three days, and his clothes weren't in a much better state. Still wearing the clothes he had worn the day before, his ruffled, white dress shirt was accompanied by a loosened tie, the top button of the shirt unbuttoned. His sleeves were rolled up half-way, and his brown shoulder holster was messily placed over, scrunching his shirt.

In short, he was a mess. But too tired to care and too focused on his job at hand, he ignored the stares of the policemen and onlookers, proceeding directly up to Jameson's floor.

Looking down the hall, he could see the usual crowd formed around the yellow Crime Scene police tape: various police officers; lab techs; an ME’s assistant; the usual gawkers who would all have to be questioned later, but by someone lower on the food chain than him; a group of reporters. But there was one man that stood out. He wore a wrinkled dress shirt with a ragged collar, and from the state of his shoes seemed to have been wading in shallow puddles. He wasn’t a crime scene worker, nor could he be a reporter – he just stood there, not taking notes, not trying to get past the tape or get a word with one of the officers – but he wasn’t just a usual onlooker, either. He seemed overly interested in the scene, almost fascinated in a way, but not in the same way as any normal person interested in the commotion down the hall from their own apartment.

Duster knew that if he tried to leave, an officer would stop and question him first, so he ignored the man for now, instead focusing on his task at hand. He pushed his way through the crowd, dodging questions from reporters, and ducked under the yellow tape and walked into the apartment. He walked straight toward the desk in the far end of the room where the body lay, glancing in the bathroom on his way. He took out a pair of latex gloves and, without looking up, asked the man examining the body, “What’ve we got here, doc?”

The man crouched by the body was Harrison Moore, the usual Medical Examiner Duster worked with. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. No signs of outward trauma, seems to be in perfect health…nothing to suggest that he’s dead.”

“Except for the fact that he is dead, doc,” Duster replied, fishing out a small, leather-bound notebook and pen to take notes with.

“Exactly. But there’s a gun in his right hand, and a suicide note on the desk.” He picked up the note with a latex-gloved hand carefully, already having it been photographed, and handed it to Duster. “But no gunshot wound.”

Duster ran a hand through his messy, light-brown hair. "Alright, thanks doc -- keep looking."

"Of course."

Duster looked around the room. "Who talked to the wife?" he asked one of the uniformed officers.

"What?"

"The wife, who talked to her?" he repeated.

"What wife? There's no wife listed, sir."

Duster sighed. "There's women's products in the bathroom, there's obviously touches of a woman in this apartment, you can see clothes in the bedroom--" he pointed to the open bedroom door. "So he's either got a wife or girlfriend. Considering the ring on his finger--" he pointed again "--I'd say wife. If she's not listed, she's still gotta be somewhere. Find her."

"Yessir," the officer answered before walking out of the room.

"You look like h*ll," Moore called from where he was still examining the body.

"Yeah, yeah, I know doc. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Collinsworth case, still?"

"Yep. Finally wrapped it up yesterday," Duster said.

"What happened to your eye?" the doctor asked, concerned.

"The case. Look, Doc, it's fine; let's focus on this case, shall we?"

"All right, but you should really have that looked at," Moore said.

"Later, later," Duster replied. He rubbed his eyes before continuing his examination of the room, the tiredness finally hitting him with the lack of an adrenaline rush. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud, not being able to have his partner for the last week and this following week was taking a great toll. Of course a major case would come up the two weeks his partner was on vacation for. Duster needed a vacation himself soon.

He felt his phone vibrate and stepped out into the apartment building's hallway to take it.

"Hey, honey," he answered, the caller ID telling him it was his wife. He had left his wife a note saying he had another case since he didn't want to wake her. "No, no, I'm fine, I just probably won't be home until late again." He paused as she spoke on the other end. "All right, seeya then. Love you." He hung up the phone and started to walk back inside.

"Detective!" someone called behind him.

He stopped and turned to see who it was. The man he had seen early who was more interested in the scene than he should've been. "Detective, could I have a moment?"

Duster sighed again, due to exhaustion rather than irritation. "Sure, what is it?"

"My name is Rufus Blackwell, private investigator. I was wondering if we could work together on this case."